


How To Save A Holiday

by Chocchi



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Fluff, Kid Fic, M/M, easter eggs!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-31
Updated: 2013-03-31
Packaged: 2017-12-07 01:35:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/742636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chocchi/pseuds/Chocchi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Mostly on accident.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	How To Save A Holiday

**Author's Note:**

> "Muse," I said. "Please give me brilliant inspiration for one of my original stories, or TLE, or that one story I've been working on on-and-off for months."  
> "Nope!" my muse said. "Why don't you write a cavity-inducing kid!fic instead."
> 
> (I am a sucker for kidfics)  
> (also the boys don't do anything scandalous the teen rating is just for language)  
> (also thanks to rubaba on tumblr for the beautiful picture of john being eaten by a dinosaur)

tentacleTherapist [TT] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG]

TT: O dear, sweet, wonderful brother of mine?

TG: oh god

TG: you need a favor dont you

TG: what did you do now

TT: Your lack of faith in me is astounding, and, frankly, very hurtful.

TG: i aint nobodies fool lalonde

TT: No, I suppose you aren’t.

TT: But it’s just a little favor.

TG: just spit it out already

TT: John’s father is working late, and John has a piano lesson, so I agreed to watch Casey for the evening.

TG: thought you had a hot date

TT: I do.

TG: ah

TT: I hesitate to call for a rain check after such a painstakingly slow courting process, so... 

TG: what thats it you just need me to watch lil missy egbert

TT: Please?

TT: I’m not certain, but there’s a possibility Mr.Egbert will pay you.

TG: man i dont even need money for this one

TG: i am all over this

TG: that kid is my bro

TG: we tight

TT: My flattering lead-in was unnecessary, then.

TG: yeah p much

TG: when should i head over

TG: like now

TT: Yes, if it’s not too much trouble.

TG: packing my bag as we speak

TT: Type.

TG: semantics

TT: Thank you, Dave.

TG: no prob sis

TG: i live to serve

TT: Oh, undoubtedly.

TG: i got this shit on lock

TG: you just worry about making yourself all pretty for your date

TT: Dave.

TT: Are you implying that I am not already stunningly beautiful?

TG: k im just gonna go over to johns place now

turntechGodhead [TG] ceased pestering tentacleTherapist [TT]

 

Your name is Dave Strider and seriously, under the welcome mat? You respect the hell out of the Egberts but sometimes you just want to pat John on the head, ruffle his hair and say, “Shhh, man, it’s okay, you tried and that’s what counts, even if you did kind of suck in the end.”

No, really. Under the welcome mat. _Everyone and their mother_ keeps their spare keys under the welcome mat. It hardly counts as hiding the spare key.

You retrieve the key in question, and unlock and open their door, shouting as you go, “BABYSITTER NOW PRESENT, PLEASE PUT ALL WILD AND CRAZY PARTIES ON HOLD.”

From upstairs, there’s a shriek of “DAAAAVE!”, and you shut the door in time to be slammed back against it when forty-five pounds of elated small child collides with your gut.

“Dave!” Casey shouts again, yanking at the bottom of your shirt delightedly as you wheeze. “Are _you_ watching me tonight? John said Rosie was gonna watch me but I’m glad if it’s you because don’t tell Rosie but you’re super fun and she’s fun too but not as much fun as you.”

“Thanks,” you choke out. You finally manage to suck some air into your lungs, and nudge her back so you have room to kick off your shoes and shed your jacket. “Hi to you, too.”

Casey beams up at you. The kid is basically vibrating with pent-up energy, bouncing in place, and you get distracted from other observations because goddamn but her socks are _awesome_. You tell her as much ( _maybe with a little less profanity_ ).

“Thank you,” she says, solemnly, stilling momentarily so she can stretch her leg out and twist her ankle, showing them off to you. “Do you like the turtles?”

“ _Duh_ ,” you assure her, then promptly scoop her up into your arms. She whoops and giggles and wraps her arms around your neck as you haul both her and your bag further into the living room. “Is your daddy or your brother home?”

“No-ooo,” she singsongs. You dump her onto the couch amidst much squealing and laughter. “S’why you’re here, silly duck!”

“I’m pretty sure you meant silly _goose_.”

“No,” Casey says, firmly. “ _Duck_.”

You hold your hands up in surrender. _Pick your battles carefully_.

“Did you bring your camera?” she demands, after a pause.

“No,” you says, and you absolutely do not feel guilty in the face of her big, sad puppy eyes because you bought that camera yourself, with hard-earned money, and you have learned your lesson about five year olds and their coordination and rough playing and grubby fingers. “But,” you acquiesce, “I _did_ bring my laptop, and it’s got all my pictures on it.”

The effect is immediate and flattering-- Casey brightens, making grabby hands at your bag until you dutifully produce your laptop. As it’s loading, you also dig out your tablet, because that is what you and Casey do. Pick the stupidest of your pictures and draw random shit all over them in photoshop.

You will make an artist out of this child yet.

 

“Dave?”

“Yeah?” you lean over to check out the picture she’s working on. “Lookin’ good, kiddo, ‘s a unicorn right?”

“Yes,” she says, puffing up with pride momentarily, then deflating long enough to continue, “Did you ‘n’ Rosie ‘n’ Mr.Bro already make your eggs?”

“Our what,” you say.

“Your _eggs_ ,” Casey gives you a despairing look. “For the _Easter Bunny_.”

Ahhh. _Eaaaaster_.

That’s a thing that’s happening, isn’t it.

Tomorrow.

You may or may not have forgotten about that.

Seriously, though, it’s totally not your fault. You are blameless. It’s just that you’ve lived in apartments your whole life, and that would be kind of a lame egg-hunt, and also Bro was kind of broke when you were younger and could not afford to splurge on stupid commercial holidays. Chocolate is _expensive_ , fuckers.

When _you_ were six and deigned to ask about this _Easter_ that all the other kids at school talked about, Bro had explained this to you and then added that _also, the Easter Bunny isn’t real, it’s everybody’s parents, get over it._

 _Santa too_ , you had checked.

 _And the tooth fairy,_ Bro confirmed.

You never really gave much of a damn because Bro always gave you quarters for lost teeth anyway, so it was never a big deal for you until you moved to Rose’s stupid little town and suddenly everybody had younger siblings who _did_ believe in all that bullshit, and you were tripping over yourself at every corner trying not to accidentally spoil it.

Casey is lucky, because she came along late enough that you’ve got your shit sorted out.

“Well,” you say, carefully. “You know there’s a lot of kids around town, right?”

“Yeaaaah,” Casey drawls, gives you an unamused _what about it_ look that you have found to be, if not unique to, at least _perfected_ by all Egberts.

“They’ve already got so many houses to get around to,” you wave a hand illustratively. “And we’re kind of old, you know, I mean we’re _eighteen_ , geez, we’re practically _ancient_ \--”

“Have you seen dinosaurs?” Casey interrupts, intrigued.

“Yes, definitely,” you deadpan. “Anyway, my point is that we let the Easter Bunny skip our house so they have more time to get around to the kids who are young and spry and deserving.”

“What does spry mean?”

“It’s kind of like energetic,” you say, dismissively.

“Okay,” Casey says, then insists, “Go back to the dinosaurs, tell me about dinosaurs.”

You proceed to go off on a twenty-minute tangent about dinosaurs.

“Why did you ask about the eggs, anyway?” you remember to ask, after you are done using your tablet to draw her a dinosaur eating her brother. ( _What John doesn’t know won’t hurt him._ )

Casey fidgets.

You raise your eyebrows. “Did you want to show me _your_ eggs, or--”

“It’s not _fair_ ,” she explodes, cheeks flushing with the indignity of it all. “We have the dye stuff and stickers and everything and Daddy said we were gonna do it _tonight_ but then he had to go to stupid _work_ and John had to go to his piano thingy and when they get home it’s gonna be late and Daddy will have to make dinner and we won’ have _time_!”

“Aww, kiddo,” you mumble. You wrap an arm around her back, give her a squeeze-- she sniffles and hiccups and burrows into your side. By tucking herself under your arm, she’s almost entirely obscured from view save for her pigtails.

“If we don’t have eggs, the Easter Bunny won’t _come_ ,” she wails, muffled.

“Maybe they will,” you suggest, weakly. “I’m sure they’re very understanding--”

Casey sobs pathetically.

Alas.

 

turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering timaeusTestified [TT]

TG: crying child hasnt had a chance to dye eggs yet

TG: egg-dyeing adults not to return until late in the evening

TG: easter bunny requires sacrifice

TG: child will not be placated

TG: pls advise

TT: Dude, just dye the eggs with her.

TG: what

TG: are you shitting me i dont know the first thing about dyeing easter eggs

TT: There’s usually instructions on the package for the dye tablets, I believe.

TT: C’mon, little dude.

TT: Believe in me who believes in you.

timaeusTestified [TT] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG]

 

The boiling of the eggs is not the hard part. You are a talented individual, and a motherfucking legal adult, and boiling eggs is not beyond you.

It’s the actual _dyeing_ part you’re baffled by.

“Wait,” Casey cries, while you stare, uncertainly, at the back of the _PAAS_ box. “Lemme go get my crayons.”

“Crayons?” you echo, helplessly, looking up in time to see the heel of a turtle-sock-clad-foot as it disappears around the corner. You look back at the box. Do you want _vibrant_ eggs? _Traditional_ eggs? _Pastel_ eggs (ooh, fancy)? Where does John even _keep_ the vinegar?

Casey comes back in, proudly waving a box of crayola crayons, and you demand, “What do you usually dye the eggs _in?_ ”

She stares at you blankly.

“Like,” you huff, struggling for words. “What do you put the dye in. Cups? Do you have special egg-dyeing dishes?”

“Oh!” Casey brightens. “Um, I dunno. Maybe.”

“Search your memory,” you plead. “Glass dishes? In the cabinets, in the pantry? High shelves?”

“High shelves!” Casey concurs, and fine, you can work with that. You climb onto the counter to begin investigating the higher shelves. “Hey! Daddy says climbing on the counters is _bad_.”

“Well, Daddy’s taller than I am and I don’t know where you brother hid the stupid step-stool,” you mutter. John, the bastard, hid the step-stool _months_ ago, and has yet to tell you where he hid it. You highly suspect it is a ploy to get you to admit that you need it, and embarrass you by forcing you to speak of this need, because you always flush and grumble and generally feel like a small child when you have to ask after it. “Don’t tell them, okay? It will be our little secret.”

Casey purses her lips. In the mean time, you successfully locate a set of glass dishes. If they weren’t for egg-dyeing before, they’re gonna be now.

“Are we making the eggs vibrant or traditional or pastel,” you ask, carefully lowering the dishes to the counter before scrambling down yourself.

“What,” Casey says.

“Uh--” you pick up the box again and wave it at her imploringly. “Do you usually-- okay, just, do you remember if you usually used vinegar.”

“Oh, yeah!” Casey grins, open-mouthed, and you fondly note her missing teeth. Also: _success_.

Well, it still takes you another five minutes to find the vinegar, but still. It counts.

It is only after you have the tablets dissolving into puddles of colored vinegar and bubbles that you realize that actually, you _are_ going to need to find the step-stool if Casey is going to reach the counter and help you dye the eggs. And frankly, Casey not helping you dye the eggs is not an option.

“Okay, Case,” you say. “We’ll get to the eggs in a minute, but _first_ , we’re going on a _treasure hunt_.”

 

Your name is John Egbert and you are _super tired uuuugh_.

It’s like eight at night and you are just now getting home! This is due to circumstances entirely beyond your control. Like a rescheduled piano lesson and Kar procrastinating on his part of the history project until you went over to his house and _forced him_ to work on it. Totally not your fault. You’ve been done with your part for _ages_.

The driveway, when you trudge up the walk, is empty-- which means Dad is still at work, which means _you_ are the one who will have to make dinner, noooo. If it was just you, you might say, screw it! I am a responsible adult and I can be lazy and just have instant ramen for dinner if I want, okay! But nope, you have a baby sister to consider, and it is up to you to make sure she gets a balanced dinner and grows up strong and healthy and has no cavities.

Maybe you can make bambi eyes at Rose until she caves and sticks around to help you?

“Heeeeey,” you call, as you slip inside the house. “Laaadies, I’m home!”

“JOHN,” Casey yells from the-- kitchen? Oh god why is Casey in the kitchen doesn’t Rose know better than to let Casey try to do things in the kitchen? “JOHN COME HERE I WANNA SHOW YOU SOMETHING.”

You frantically kick off your shoes, trying to free yourself of your jacket at the same time, and scramble for the kitchen door. Is there smoke? You don’t think you smell smoke, and you don’t see it, and the smoke detector isn’t going off so--

You freeze in the doorway.

“So, uh,” Dave says. “This is a thing that happened?”

You choke out a strangled noise. It might be agreeable. You’re not sure.

“Look, look,” Casey beams at you from atop the step-stool ( _the step-stool, how did they find the step-stool, dammit now you’ll have to find other excuses to tease Dave for being short_ ). She flails her hand at her creation. “We did the eggs!”

“You... did,” you manage, somehow unable to tear your gaze away from _Dave_ , who is standing there, behind your kid sister, head ducked shyly. His shades are shoved up to perch atop his head, setting his hair askew, and he’s wearing an apron for god’s sake-- an apron now splattered with dye-- and he’s clutching some of Casey’s crayons-- “Dave oh my _god_ please I’m going to get _cavities_.”

“What?” Dave protests, cheeks pink. “I don’t know what you’re-- okay, just shut up and come admire our masterpiece. Masterpie _ces_ , plural, whatever.”

You dutifully meander over to Casey’s side, glancing at the contents of the egg carton. Usually, your easter eggs are a mix of your-- _creative_ , for lack of a better word ( _hey, you’re just not a visual artist, okay, you’re a strictly musical kinda guy_ ), eggs, Dad’s somehow-perfect-and-gorgeous-this-is-probably-a-parent-thing eggs, and Casey’s adorable scribbly eggs. This year, however, you have _Dave’s_ eggs to go with Casey’s eggs, and it is completely unfair and also super cute.

“Is this a dinosaur,” you demand, lifting one of the eggs out of the carton with your fingertips.

“Maybe,” Dave mumbles.

“I like dinosaurs,” Casey says, brightly. “I did the other one with dinosaurs! Dave’s is better, though.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, yours is far superior,” Dave huffs.

“What’s superior?”

“Better,” you tell her, almost absentmindedly. Your eyes flicker down to Dave’s hands again, still fidgeting with the crayons, tips stained with dye. “It means-- yeah. Better. Casey why don’t you run upstairs and pick out some pajamas to put on, I’ll come up to help you with a bath in a minute. You’ve got dye on your face, you little monkey.”

“I’m not a monkey,” Casey bares her teeth at you. “I’m a _dinosaur._ Raaaawr!”

“Dinosaurs were a theme tonight,” Dave says, shuffling his feet awkwardly.

“I see,” you say, faintly. “Okay, fine, but-- baby dinosaurs still need baths, too, you must be all muddy from romping around the prehistoric jungle.”

“Dinosaurs don’t care about baths,” Casey declares.

You narrow your eyes at Dave threateningly.

“I-- yes! I mean _no_ ,” Dave blurts, hurriedly. “Dinosaurs most _definitely_ care about baths, you should go take a bath. Before your brother hurts me.”

“What?” Casey tries to start, confused, but Dave is already shepherding her out of the kitchen and out into the living room. You spend the brief interlude in which you can hear them heading up the stairs processing what you just saw. You think you’ve almost managed to fully comprehend it by the time Dave returns.

“She, uh, is probably going to need help with the taps,” he says, shoulders hunched almost defensively.

“Dave,” you say.

“Okay are you mad at me or something because--”

“What? No,” you frown at him, but he’s not looking at you. He looks embarrassed, actually. “No, I’m-- honestly, Dave, I’m kind of short-circuiting because of a cute overload over here. I mean, _jesus_.”

He blinks at you.

“You just helped my baby sister,” you enunciate, slowly, “ _Decorate easter eggs_. My _baby sister_ , Dave. _Easter eggs_. And _you_.”

Dave scowls ferociously, face flushing again. “She was _upset_ about it, okay, apparently the Easter Bunny doesn’t come unless eggs are sacrificed and she didn’t think there was going to be _time_ so I--”

You can’t help it. You reach out and squish his cheeks with your hands.

“You,” you inform him. “Are-- a-- gigantic, _adorable--_ dork.”

He makes an indignant sound, a protesting sound, and tries to free himself, but you are not having that. You drag him closer, even.

“ _John_ ,” he complains, lifting his own hand to try to bat yours away. The crayons he’s been holding clatter to the kitchen floor.

“ _John!_ ” Casey yowls, pitifully, upstairs.

Dammit.

“Hey,” you say, as you grudgingly release Dave’s face. “Stick around, okay?”

“Why,” Dave sniffs. “So you can _mock me_ some more? Because I’m not sure my fragile ego can handle it, Egbert.”

You laugh, elbowing him. “No, so I can badger you into entertaining Casey while I make dinner, and show me all the stupid dinosaur shit I’m sure she made you draw--” he scrunches his nose at you, and _ooh_ , that means he _definitely_ drew something dinosaur-related and probably hilarious-- “Just, I have to go clean Casey up, first.”

“Fine, whatever, I’ll just,” Dave makes a face. “Clean up. I guess. I can just dump this shit down your sink, right?”

You snort, patting him on the back on your way out. “You’re a big boy, you’ll figure it out.”

 

Your name is Dave Strider and John is a _dick_.

“No, stop, come back here, I don’t-- _John if I accidentally stain your sink weird colors you are the one who’s explaining it to your dad okay--_ ”

You content yourself with the knowledge that _he_ is the one who is going to have to try to bathe a squirmy, restless five year old.

You hope Casey insists on a bubble bath and then sloshes bubble-water all over the place.

 

Your name is John Egbert and it take you a good forty-five minutes to wheedle your sister into bathing, actually _get her clean_ , and then hold her still long enough to be dried off and wrestled in pajamas, rather than streaking around the house naked.

You actually have to change your own clothes, too, because you are _sopping wet_ , but whatever, okay, a victory is a victory.

You wander downstairs again, listening to the drift of Dave and Casey’s voices from the kitchen, and it hits you-- how stupidly-- _domestic_ all of this is, and how much you _like_ it. You _want_ to keep coming home and finding Dave playing with Casey, like he doesn’t have better shit to do on a Saturday night, like he doesn’t care whether or not she actually needs a babysitter and he would spend time with her just for the hell of it.

You have this epiphany at the base of the stairs, and when you finally start moving across the living room again, you realize Dave’s left his laptop open on the couch. You mean to just close it, let it go into sleep mode and tuck it back into Dave’s bag, but instead you find yourself tilting the screen back to examine whatever shenanigans Dave’s been encouraging your sister to partake in.

You blink.

“ _Dave_ ,” you say, loudly, carefully lifting the laptop up. “Hey, Dave.”

“Still in here,” Dave yells, from the kitchen. “You told me not to stray, o wise one.”

You wander back into the kitchen, laptop balanced in one hand, and Dave freezes halfway to saying something when he sees it.

You raise your eyebrows.

“Dave,” you say, levelly. “Is this me. Is the stick figure in this picture me.”

“Is that a question or a statement because your intonation _sucks_ , man--”

“You drew me getting eaten by a dinosaur.” You make a show of studying him, but it’s more to make him nervous than because you’re actually offended in any way. Seriously, Dave is the _biggest_ dork, he is the king of all dorks, he is-- super cute, he really is. Him and Casey, man. You don’t know what you’re going to do with them. “Did Casey encourage this?”

“I told him to make the dinosaur green,” Casey says, helpfully. Dave is making a very convincing show of finding your kitchen ceiling fascinating.

“You big _dweeb_ ,” you say, fondly, setting his laptop to the side so you can yank at the apron he’s apparently forgotten to take off. “Here, give me this.”

“Am I invited for dinner, then?” he asks, arching an eyebrow.

“No, Dave, I am going to make you entertain my sister and watch me make food that you won’t get to eat,” you inform him. You start scavenging the shelves for something you can make a semi-healthy meal out of as you’re attempting to tie the apron behind your back ( _clearly you need to do some grocery shopping_ ). After a moment of this, Dave makes a noise of exasperation and bats your hands away.

“Jesus, just let me do it.”

“Are you some kind of expert at this or something?” you snipe, but you dutifully drop your hands and let him do his thing.

Casey, once again perched on the step-stool, observes the proceedings with great interest. When Dave finally steps away from your back, she suddenly asks, “Is Dave staying for Easter t’morrow morning?”

You both freeze.

“Because he should,” Casey continues, decisively. “He helped with the eggs, so he should get some, but he told me he and Rosie don’t leave eggs for the Easter Bunny--”

“You don’t do _Easter?_ ” you yelp, horrified, whirling to find Dave heaving a put-upon sigh.

“No. We do not _do Easter_. We have never done Easter. Bro told me the secrets of the holidays when I was six.”

That’s so _sad_.

“You could stay for Easter,” you say, before actually thinking about it any further. “I mean, if you wanted. And it was okay with your bro.”

“I am eighteen years old, I don’t need to ask Bro’s permission to have sleepovers,” Dave groans, but he’s pulling his phone out of his pocket as he says it, so you’re pretty sure you win.

 

turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering timaeusTestified [TT]

TG: hey bro

TT: Hey little bro.

TG: im sleeping over at johns place tonight

TG: please submit any and all objections to be ignored

TT: No objections.

TT: But use protection.

TG: wait what

TG: bro

TG: what

TT: I feel like that was relatively straightforward.

TG: no but

TG: why would you even

TT: Dave.

TT: Are you seriously trying to deny that you would tap that.

TG: okay fine legit point

TG: BUT

TG: i emphatically do deny that i would tap that while his lil sister is here

TG: also im p sure john is completely uninterested so theres that

TT: You cannot seriously be that oblivious.

TG: im not oblivious this is just seriously intense best friend action okay

TG: he probably doesnt even realize im head over sneakers over here

TT: Oh my god.

timaeusTestified [TT] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG]

 

Your name is Dave Strider and nothing good could possibly come from the combination of Bro disconnecting in a fit of pique and John shortly thereafter dissolving into helpless laughter.

“What,” Casey cries, looking incredibly put out. “What’s so funny, what happened!”

“Nothing,” John gasps, but clearly it’s _something_ , because he’s nearly bent in half with the force of his mirth, and he’s leaning back against the counter for support. “Nothing, nothing’s wrong, just-- Casey. Go pick a book, Dave can read to you while I’m making dinner, okay?”

“Dave does not remember agreeing to this,” you mutter, but you can’t bring yourself to really object when Casey is scrambling to dismount the step-stool so enthusiastically. You help her down and watch her duck under the kitchen partition, then yelp when fingers wrap around your wrist and haul you back. “What-- John, what--?”

“Hey Dave,” he says, cheerfully, manhandling you until you’re face-to-face. “Do you like me?”

You stare at him. _What_.

“Because,” he continues, waving his phone at you with his free hand. “I have it on credible authority that you’re _head over sneakers_ for me.”

“Oh my god,” you say, weakly. You are going to _kill_ Bro.

“And I just thought it would be kind of nice if that were true, because I’m pretty goddamn fond of you, too,” John tells you, giving you his best shit-eating grin, and you don’t know what you want to do more, punch him in the teeth or kiss the smirk right off his face.

Unfortunately you are leaning toward the second one.

“I hate you,” you tell him, even as you hesitantly lean in.

“That’s too bad,” John snorts. He lets his phone fall to the counter, and his arms sneak up until they’re settled around your waist, and he’s squeezing you closer-- closer-- “Because you’re pretty much stuck with me.”

 


End file.
